


you've got me good

by hayleyisbored



Series: a game that you play [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Banter, Flirting, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Post-Skyfall, Q Has a Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayleyisbored/pseuds/hayleyisbored
Summary: "James," Q says the name like a prayer: with reverence, in hushed tones. "Why did you come to me?"





	you've got me good

"It's a bloody tip in here..."

Q had had long enough to step through the doorway and toe the door shut behind him before the teasing, sly voice spoke up. He hadn't, however, had long enough to put his shopping down. The bag slips out of his surprised grasp just as he crashes into his lamp, fumbling with it for an agonisingly drawn out moment - unlike the Double Oh's, _he_ hadn't the same talent for grace and coordination - before turning to confront the man lurking in his flat.

What he wants to say is something funny, something that'll catch the man off guard. Something like, _"oopsie daisy, there goes the eggs."_ Maybe even something to convince his visitor that he isn't some bumbling boffin but the unflappable Quartermaster he manages to present to everybody else. He can't quite manage any of that though, not with him.

"How the _fuck_ did you get past all of my security measures?!"

It's not as eloquent as Q would like but it does the job. Bond steps out of the shadow of Q's bookcase - looking tired and bruised, his neon eyes glowing electric blue and framed by fatigued red - and smirks. He smirks in that infuriating, _because-I'm-cleverer-than-you'll-allow-me_ way. That cockiness drives Q mad because Bond is right - he's _right_. He's right more often than not and oh, that burns Q enough that he'll go on never admitting it for the rest of his life. He would never want to give 007 the satisfaction.

"I was under the impression you kept a cat. I'm yet to see one."

"She's - she's probably hiding under my bed. She doesn't take well to strangers."

The very thought of him staggers Q. _Bond_. Q can recall with perfect, humiliating clarity the last he'd heard that voice. _I'll pick you up at seven thirty this Saturday. Do wear something nice. Ta-ta, Q._ He'd listened to the recordings of that conversation a pathetic number of times; Q's brain sees equations and problems to be solved and riddles, and he'd been foolishly trying to hear a pattern in those last exchanged words, or a clue, or a bloody _whiff_ of a hint that might have shown some indication of the disaster yet to come.

How he's poured himself over his desk at Q Branch for countless nights on end, surrounded by half finished mugs of tea and chunks of nibbled biscuits, deflating like a languishing balloon every time he hears himself breathlessly sign off, blissfully unaware that he wouldn't hear from Bond again for months - until tonight. All because he felt like he'd somehow failed. Again. All for the sake of that voice.

For this _body_ standing brazen in his home enquiring after his feline companion as if no time has passed at all. As if 007 isn't wearing those wrinkled, blood encrusted clothes that Q is sure will have to be soaked before Bond can peel them off. As if he isn't trying to conceal how every line of his limbs are clearly about to buckle from exhaustion. As if he isn't casually sliding Q's copy of Frankenstein back onto the shelf like it's the most ordinary thing in the world for him to be here.

"That's my book." Q blurts out unthinkingly because _really_.

"Yes," Bond says, entertained, eyes flitting back to the spine of the book. Grinning in that little way of his at the title. He smiles like he knows all of Q's secrets - he probably _does_ , Q thinks with a huff. "You know how I like resurrections."

"You should be careful with those." Q tells the agent quietly. His voice sounds distant, vacant even to his own ears. "They might come back to bite you."

Q must look ghastly because after a minute beneath the probing blue eyes, Bond shifts on his feet and comes towards him. Q feels the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, of splayed fingers searing through his jacket and jumper and shirt and down through his skin to his eager bones. Every inch of him screams out for Bond and he's incensed how easily he's ready to cave for it, for that simple touch. After everything, after all he's seen, Q's impulses towards Bond are very much the same as everybody else who comes into contact with him.

Confirmation, then, that Bond is truly here and alive, and not some miraculous, divine vision sent to haunt him.

"I'll fetch you a glass of scotch." Bond decides rather condescendingly for a man almost dead on his feet.

"I don't keep scotch - "

"Ah, I _do_ , however." Bond announces, conjuring a bottle from thin air and brandishing it without so much of his usual flourish. Bond can be ostentatious about many things; apparently he loses the knack when he's crossed the threshold of pleasantly tipsy and exceedingly knackered. Q notes that the bottle is already half empty with a shrewd quirk of an eyebrow. "Consider it a souvenir."

"What would make you think I'd be tempted by your sloppy seconds?"

"Oh, I wouldn't necessarily call it that, Q." Bond purrs fondly, disappearing off into the dark kitchen. Q can hear him rummaging around in his cupboards, the unmistakable chime of two glasses knocking together. "Maybe lovingly tried-and-tested thirds. It's been a terribly boring wait. You keep long hours."

The tone has a touch of the accusatory about it, one that would be paired with a finger waggle if Bond went in for that sort of thing, and Q doesn't relish that. In fact, Q bristles with pent up rage - desperation - relief. Any of them will do, they all fuel him just the same.

"Excuse me, you've been missing in action for three months, Bond. I had no expectations of finding you getting pissed in my front room. I thought perhaps maybe you'd wind up somewhere sunny, that tends to be your predilection when it comes to disappearing from the face of the earth without a backwards glance."

"I see," Bond says slowly as he comes out of the kitchen, the sound of a man finally putting pieces together. "I hit some...complications."

"Oh, nasty things, those complications. You can't seem to get away from them. Please do explain yourself on your way _out_. Have you even checked in with MI6 yet? You'll be lucky if M doesn't chuck you right back out again when he discovers you've been alive this whole bloody time."

"You're mad at me." Bond deduces, light and airy - playful. He's talking to Q like he's a snappy puppy.

Q could throttle him. He'd certainly give it a good go if he could be sure that Bond wouldn't have him pinned before he could blink, even in his worn out state.

"Thank god you're putting that brain to good use. Really, you are the elite, Bond. Incredible how you can pick up on such subtle - "

"Now, Q. Temper, temper." Bond pours a generous amount of scotch into one of the glasses for Q, holding it out for him to take. It's a testament to Bond's stubbornness that the drink is steady, not a single ripple of tiredness to be seen in the amber depths. "I think you need this more than I do. You're being uncommonly expressive today."

"I still thought you'd show up, you know. Thought maybe you'd leave it till the very last, most inconvenient second." Q ignores the scotch in favour of pushing past Bond so that he can head into the kitchen. He pointedly flicks the switch on the kettle and while he's at it, turns the light on as well, sick of hiding in the darkness with 007. When he finally brings himself to face Bond, he leans heavily against the counter-top, mouth set in a grim line. "But you didn't."

Because isn't that what Bond does? Perform incredible feats of heroic escape? Return frequently from the grave? Resurrection. He's like a cockroach that way, nothing can kill him. He's always swaggered back home in suits sharper than his smile, tossing Q bits and pieces of charred or waterlogged equipment with a wink and a mildly flirty comment, fully aware of how he renders the entirety of Q Branch into a fawning, speechless wreck as he struts off to give M any number of Bond-related headaches. He's their golden boy, after all.

Q hadn't gone as far to get properly dressed that Saturday night - he wasn't a complete hopeless romantic - but he'd sat up. He'd waited. He'd fiddled with the neatly wrapped box containing the promised wristwatch, glancing at the front door every other minute.

_He'll come. He'll be here. Any moment now..._

Until before he knew it, the sun had risen and his phone was ringing with word from Moneypenny that Bond was nowhere to be found, they'd lost track of him. Moneypenny had sounded hopeful at the time - the same thing had happened after she'd accidentally shot him off that train, she'd breezily explained - but with every new week, that hope had begun to fade. Not even her failing optimism could put Q off his relentless search for the lost agent.

"No," Bond concedes, swirling the last dregs of scotch around in his glass before draining it. He sounds almost apologetic. "No, I didn't."

"I thought you were dead, too."

This time, Bond does look shamed. He rubs a hand over bloodshot eyes - dirt is crusted beneath his usually immaculate nails, what the _hell_ has happened to him? - and fixes that blue gaze on the Quartermaster.

"I'm sorry, Q. I should have tried to get word to you at least."

"Don't be daft," Q says softly, coming down from his anger as suddenly as it came on. "If you'd tried, you would have undoubtedly compromised yourself. Wouldn't want that on my mind."

"And yet, it seems as if it has been." Bond says, stepping into the light of the kitchen, his hair glinting gold around his head like a halo. The knot in Q's stomach tightens and he tries not to make comparisons of avenging angels, turning the world around them to ash and fire. 

Bond's face looks worse beneath the yellow bulb, he's positively sallow but there's something under the beaten facade that watches Q almost...tenderly. Q turns away, busies himself with making tea - for both of them. The sooner he gets Bond away from that scotch, the better.

"Of course not." Q lies, heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. "I've barely given you a passing thought."

Warm laughter startles Q. Bond's voice is like treacle, deep and rich. "Oh, is that it now? I was under the impression you'd missed me. It's rare that I make mistakes, Q." 

"Consider yourself mistaken. Missed you? Don't be barmy, 007. You're an asset, that's all. A maddening, reckless bastard of an asset - but an asset nonetheless. I could hardly give you up." 

"Are you sure?"

Turning his back on Bond had been Q's mistake. Hot breath stirs at the hair at the nape of his neck. Those hands reach for his taut shoulders, slip down his arms like Q is a new gun he's mapping out and searching greedily for the trigger. 

God, Q thinks, he hopes he isn't that to Bond. To be used and abused, thrown away with a shrug when he's reached his limit. It strengthens his resolve.

"Absolutely. How many sugars do you take, Bond?"

The hands still. Q is acutely aware of a face inches from his own, peering over his shoulder. "Are you making me tea?"

"Well, I have no idea what else you think I would be doing. How many sugars?"

"As many as you like."

Q rolls his eyes. A spy through and through, unable to give even the most basic information. It hardly seems fair that Bond apparently knows all he needs to about Q, whereas 007 will always be just that - a number. A name. A shaken martini abandoned at a bar. A one night stand and the lasting impression of something altogether dangerous.

"How did you find out where I live? I make it a point to be untraceable."

"I wouldn't want to give away my secrets..."

"I'd like to know in case someone less - less - " Q searches for the right word, the _best_ word not to encourage 007 further. It's difficult when Bond is pressed close enough for Q to feel his steady heartbeat. " - less amicable comes searching for me." he settles on.

"Your file."

"My - " Q spins in the small space between his counter-top and Bond. "What happened to my file being under lock and key? What happened to the only person being able to get into - " 

Q stops, draws breath. Bond looks relaxed, politely interested almost to the point of boredom. Q can't possibly expect 007 to remember idle chatter from three months ago. He hadn't been thinking. He's given himself away.

"I'm resourceful." Bond explains simply, letting Q's sentence go unfinished.

"If you're so resourceful, it's a wonder why you even need a Quartermaster."

"I'm resourceful," he repeats calmly, raising his brows. "But I'm not you. There's always a smarter man - "

"Or woman."

" - or woman." Bond amends with a nod of admission. 

"Why are you here? What exactly am I to you, Bond? Am I some naive youth tapping away behind a computer screen? Am I a distraction? Or am I just someone for you to flirt with if you're feeling particularly lonely?"

"If I said you were all three, would you be very upset with me?"

"Bond."

Amazingly, he steps away from Q until his back hits the opposite counter and rests against it at leisure, tilting his head at Q, face quietly serious. There's a split running down the middle of his lower lip and Q can't look away from it, almost wants to press a finger to the cut and wonder how it came to be. Wonder whose last act it was before they faced Bond's vengeful wrath. 

"I meant what I said before. You're the best Quartermaster I've served under. I also happen to think you're one of the best men I know."

Q grips the counter hard. "Don't tease, 007. It's unbecoming."

"I'm not."

"Please," Q shakes his head, pulling his eyes from 007. He sets about pouring the water into the mugs, his hands always on the hunt for something to do in times of crisis. "Sometimes I feel all you know how to do is tease me."

He never meant to say that, he never meant to sound so tragically glum. By rule, Bond is a man of few words and even fewer compliments. Suddenly, it seems almost too much to bear for Q to hear it.

Bond purses his lips as if to keep from smiling but Q can hear the amusement in his voice regardless. "Careful, Q. That sounded sincere."

Drawing out any conversation from the agent can be akin to getting blood from a stone - not for lack of trying on the part of many at MI6. Yet with Q, Bond jokes. He laughs. He snaps too, sometimes, if the mission is going badly. Moneypenny is the only other person Bond has any rapport with but unlike Q, she takes all his flirting with a pinch of salt.

Unlike Q, she isn't desperately in love with 007. 

Not that Bond has to know that.

"James," Q says the name like a prayer: with reverence, in hushed tones. "Why did you come to me?" 

Bond's eyes have turned black. He pushes off from the counter with an audible grunt of pain.

"Because I've only been back in the country for an hour and a half and all I could think of was seeing you." He crosses the kitchen in two strides, meeting Q toe to toe. "Because all I could think about for _three bloody months_ while I slept on blasted hard dirt and as bastards shot at me every other day was you."

Q reaches up when Bond leans in, places his palm flat against 007's chest, startled by his own action. Whether he was attempting to stop Bond or draw him nearer, Q cannot say. His hand stays there, utterly immobile, firm muscle shifting beneath his fingertips. 

Now, Bond's voice comes softly, "Because I'm not in the mood to be interrogated by M, or be poked and prodded by Medical. I trust you implicitly, Q, and I hope you can return the courtesy by trusting me."

"What - what am I supposed to say to that, 007?"

"Anything - or nothing. You don't have to say a damned thing, not if you don't want to."

Q's gaze slips down to his own hand, to that spot where Bond's heart continues to thud, his life oozing through Q's fingers. Q presses his hand harder against the feeling, recognising Bond's mind-boggling skill for getting out of the very worst scrapes. 007 has stared down Death with that unyielding gaze and Death moved on, time and time again.

"Stay here." he tells Bond sternly, who raises his hands in submission.

"Wouldn't dream of going anywhere else. Do hurry, your tea will get cold."

Q leaves Bond in the bright light of the kitchen, walking through the black rooms of his home to the small safe in his bedroom. As Q pushes his glasses up onto his forehead to perform the retinal scan - so what if he brings his work home every now and again? - he chooses not to ponder over why after that Saturday night, he'd decided to keep the wristwatch he'd made for Bond here instead of locking it up at Q Branch. He could have stored it away from curious eyes, could easily have left it to gather dust and become long forgotten...

Bond is in deep reverie, nursing a mug of tea between his hands like he's only using it for the warmth when Q returns with the small box in hand. He could be carved from marble; even standing here in Q's cramped kitchen, he looks just as impressive, just as otherworldly as the sculptures from Ancient Greece. The illusion is only marginally ruined when he stirs after Q thrusts the gift towards him.

"What is it?"

"A present."

"Why Q, you shouldn't have. It's not even my birthday."

"I don't _have_ to give you that, you know. I can always pass it onto another agent." He makes no mention that it's custom made to fit Bond's wrist, compatible only with him. "005 might enjoy it." 

"005 should be so bloody lucky. Hand it over - if you please."

Q might have resisted a little while longer if he weren't burning for Bond to open it. There's one thing he allows himself to indulge in when it comes to Bond, one opportunity to be prideful in his work; it has become something of a personal game of Q's to up the ante when presenting gadgets to James Bond whenever he saunters into Q Branch, all for the pleasure of revelling in the agent's subtle delight. 

The signs are hard to spot unless you're well learned in the mannerisms of Bond. Q doesn't think it too presumptuous to consider himself quite the expert, he's had plenty of practice by now.

Q takes it all in; he savours the twitch of Bond's brow as he plucks off the black ribbon, he drinks up the sight of 007's nimble fingers thoroughly dismantling all of Q's careful wrappings and plucking off the lid. The almost imperceptible flash of blue jumping up to meet his own eyes for a split second warms Q's whole body.

"You got me a watch."

"I _made_ you a watch, Bond. You won't find any other of its kind. It's unique, as remarkable as its owner."

"Come here - "

"What?"

"Come here. Show me how it works."

Bond hands the box over to Q and holds his arm out. It takes the Quartermaster a moment before he realises that Bond is waiting for Q to put the watch on him. 

Q isn't breathing as he takes the watch and slides it onto Bond's wrist, securing the clasp with a satisfying click - and perhaps he lingers a little longer than necessary when he makes adjustments. He's certain that Bond can read Q's nerves, he's probably orchestrated this just to watch the younger man squirm. Bond can pick up on attraction the way a connoisseur can detect notes within wine. 

"What do I do with it, Q?" This, spoken low, seductively. 

Q has to swallow against the dryness in his mouth. "Well, you follow the big hand and - "

There's a whisper of a laugh from Bond as he says, "Who's teasing now?"

"It's perfectly functional as a standard wristwatch. However, it can also monitor your pulse. It provides readings of your vital organs and tells you when your body is in danger. You can send out a distress signal by pressing this here - " Q demonstrates, a redundant grip wrapped lightly around Bond's wrist to keep his hand steady. " - and you can access information about the nearest hospitals by flipping the face of the watch up, see? Oh, one other thing: it has a built in tracker. We would hate to lose you again, Bond."

So Q might have tinkered with it and added a few extra features after news of Bond's disappearance. The watch had been his never-ending pet project these past couple of months, he could never keep from cramming more technology and pumping more hours into it. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to confess he'd become quite possessed by the idea of perfecting it.

"We?" Bond gently enquires, trying to make eye contact with Q. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to keep me alive." 

"And I'd say you do a splendid job of living as it is. This is just...precautionary." Q releases Bond's arm but doesn't move away. He stares at a tear in 007's shirt, the fading yellow of an old bruise peeking through. "You know how I feel about you."

A statement of fact, not a question. Q knows that they're both smarter than to deny it. 

"Yes." 

"And do you - " Q can't get himself to say it: _do you like me too_. Even in his head, it sounds so adolescent, something to be shyly asked on the playground amidst rosy blushes. Bond doesn't deal in juvenile exploits or sweet, sunny professions. He kisses stars into your eyes and drapes you in moonlight. "Are you toying with me?" 

It's silent in the kitchen. A silence with anyone can be uncomfortable but a silence with James Bond is unnerving, _dreadful_. Q can hear the reprimand in that quiet, the muted outrage at Q's question. 

Bond moves and Q thinks he's slipped up, he's insulted the one man it would be wise to fall to your knees and grovel to, that he'll never see the agent again after this - but then Bond is trailing feather-light fingers along Q's jaw, up behind his ear and into his hair. His palm is rough and callused against Q's cheek but the touch is kind - kinder than anything Bond has ever done before. There is no ulterior motive beneath it, its sole existence is to comfort and be comforted. 

"Not with you, Q. Never with you." he murmurs, his other hand coming up to rest behind Q's neck, crumpling his collar. "You promised me a date. I warn you that I _will_ collect on that promise sooner rather than later."

"Ah, yes." Q's voice has shot up an octave or two. "Dinner, dancing and drinks? You were planning on charming me with your extravagant life, 007."

"I think we both know that I don't need any of those things to charm you. I think you're a lost cause already. Besides, there'll be another time for all of that. Didn't you know?" Bond nods at the watch on his wrist, snug against his skin. "I have all the time in the world."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the reaction to my first 00Q fic was SO BLOODY LOVELY that I really wanted to write a part 2. I hope you enjoy this, I might go back in and add little changes here and there because I haven't had it in me to read it through. Thank you for welcoming me to the fandom with open arms and kind words!
> 
> For the song that the title is taken from: [Mercy by Duffy](https://open.spotify.com/track/1zusIxNqJu8i4g6P6hJ2Qa)


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